


The Plainest Things

by voleuse



Category: Battlestar Galactica
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-18
Updated: 2005-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He writes for the eyes who follow him, "Nothing is lost in the other world."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plainest Things

**Author's Note:**

> Set before 1.10, no spoilers. Title and summary adapted from Chard Deniord's _Pasternak_.

As the new order of the worlds falls into motion, she finds her place accorded.

"Elosha," one of Colonial One's attendants says to her, "we've set aside your quarters."

She tries to explain she needs no special accomodations, but he shakes his head.

"It's for," he starts. Then stops. He is very young.

She smiles. "It's for what?"

"A place of worship," he stammers. "We don't know what to--"

She holds up her hand. "I'll see to the arrangements."

The boy sighs. "Whatever we can do to help."

"Thank you," she tells him. "Will you show me the way?"

*

 

She needs only a small cot in a corner. The rest, she devotes to what the other passengers need. A central shine, with what idols she carried, and the scrolls of prophecy, bound for common reading.

They find three boxes of candles in the luggage, and matches.

There is no incense.

She tells them it doesn't matter. Only their faith matters.

If she worries about her own, she does not tell them.

*

 

This life in space is empty to her.

She believes in the will of the gods, but she had become so used to tangible, ritual things.

The low chant of prayer, at the five points of each day, echoing against the walls of the temple. The rustle of formal vestments, heavy with embroidery and rough to touch. The wafting comfort of the altar's offerings, burnt fruit and tokens and, yes, incense.

These things are only the habiliments of belief, not belief itself.

She finds herself struggling to remember that.

*

 

Her quarters are typically empty in the evening hours. She doesn't find it surprising, as the fourth point of the day has traditionally marked familial, rather than ritual, worship.

She takes the time to kneel before the altar herself. She lights a candle to honor Hestia, burns a precious shred of bread in Demeter's name.

Then she touches each idol once, offers them prayers in turn.

Hera. Poseidon. Ares. Hermes. Hephaestus. Aphrodite. Athena. Apollo. Artemis. Hades. Dionysus.

She prays for safety, and cunning, and compassion, and valor. Strength and vengeance and hope. She prays for everything they don't have anymore, and everything they still will lose.

And finally, she bows her head to pray to Zeus, who is without form or idol.

Of him, she asks only for one thing.

A sign.

*

 

After the second point of the next day, one of the president's aides appears at the door.

Elosha finishes her blessing, and waves away his apologies.

"How can I help you?" she asks the young man.

He shifts on his feet, looking awkward and worried.

"President Roslin would like to talk to you," he says.

She nods. "Of course."

And smiles as she steps through the door.


End file.
